Page 25 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Darcy

S ometime after his furious return from Meryton, Darcy stood at the far end of the room, his back to the door, the light of late afternoon slashing across his face as he tugged impatiently at the fastenings of his coat.

His trunk lay open on the floor, garments half-folded, half-thrown, as though his thoughts had outrun his hands.

Bingley stepped inside, startled by the scene.

“What happened to you?”

Darcy turned sharply, eyes shadowed, movements jerky with agitation.

“I have to leave.”

“What?”

“I must leave at once,” he repeated.

Bingley’s brow knit.

“Darcy, I do not understand.”

“I cannot…” He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, pacing. “I cannot explain. It is too much. I cannot…”

He felt out of control, a caged animal as fury raged through him. He could not think clearly, his mind a whirlwind as he seethed. How could that man be here?!

“Darcy, man, calm down,” Bingley said, crossing to him. “You’re shaking.”

Darcy stopped, jaw clenched. His eyes met Bingley’s, and Bingley almost recoiled.

“Will you come with me?” Darcy asked, turning away and resuming his task.

“Now? But we are to host a ball! We cannot simply leave!”

Darcy shook his head.

“This is your ball, not mine. Host it without me. There are few who will notice my absence.”

“I would notice,” Bingley said quietly. “I would miss you.”

Darcy gave a bitter smile.

“I am touched, Bingley. Truly. But…”

“You’ve been out of sorts for days, but this… This is something else entirely. Please, Darcy, you must stop. Whatever it is, speak to me.”

Darcy turned away again, scrubbing both hands across his face.

“I am a damned fool.”

“This is because of that man, isn’t it?” Bingley asked softly.

Darcy froze. He said nothing, but Bingley continued.

“That man. Wickham.”

Darcy’s voice was hoarse when it came.

“He is not a man, Bingley. He is nothing.”

Bingley approached him cautiously, brow furrowed.

“Who is he? You have never mentioned this Mr Wickham before, but it is clear that you know one another, for he glanced at you more than once.”

“Oh, I know him,” Darcy muttered, turning to face the window as though he could outrun the memories pressing in. “I know him far too well. I know him to be the most despicable creature I have ever had the misfortune to call a friend.”

“Why?” Bingley asked. “What did he do?”

There was a long silence.

Darcy’s hands balled into fists at his sides, the knuckles white.

“I cannot say.”

“Darcy. You may trust me with anything and be assured of my most sincere confidence.”

“I cannot say,” he repeated, more sharply. His voice cracked with the weight of it. “To speak it aloud would… it would destroy someone. Someone I am bound to protect.”

Bingley frowned his concern only deepening.

“I know whatever he has done against you must be most serious, for I have never seen you in such a distress. What can I do?”

Darcy shook his head, his hands rising to his head as though he could push away the thoughts that tormented him so. As if he could squeeze the crimes Wickham had committed against his sister from existence. It was impossible, of course; there was no changing the past. Lord knows he had tried.

“I need to be gone from this place. Away from him. Away from everyone…Away from her .”

Bingley blinked.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley asked. “I say that only because she is the only woman you have had any prolonged contact with save for my sisters, and…”

Darcy looked away. Bingley took a measured step back, his expression shifting as comprehension slowly dawned.

“Good God,” he said softly. “Is this what has unsettled you so? Is this why you object to my marrying Miss Bennet - so that you might pursue her sister without entanglement? Do you wish to defile Miss Elizabeth without the burden of marriage?”

“What?” Darcy replied inelegantly, entirely caught off guard. “No - no, of course not. How could you think…? I cannot marry her, Bingley, that is something we both know. And anything else - it would be unthinkable.”

“Why not?” Bingley pressed, his tone gentle but insistent. “She is not married, nor betrothed. She would make a fine wife, I am sure of it.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy said tightly. “But not my wife. My family would never accept it.”

“By which you mean Lady Catherine. And her family - yes, I know. Her younger sisters are unrestrained, and her mother lacks discretion. But the girls will mature, and I dare say Mrs. Bennet’s nerves might improve once her daughters are wed and she does not have the concern of what will become of them because of the entailment. ”

“You are being remarkably generous,” Darcy muttered.

“I am being honest,” Bingley replied. “I ask because I see something in you when you are near her. I am famously oblivious to matters of feeling. If even I can see it, Darcy, it must be blinding.”

Darcy turned away, jaw set, but said nothing.

“Tell me, then,” Bingley said quietly. “If your families were of no importance to this decision, if it were just you and her, ensconced in a world of your own with no judgement or society to worry about, would you ask for her hand?”

Darcy closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Then there is your answer.”

“It is a pretty sentiment, Bingley, but the world you describe is not reality.”

“If you would be ashamed to be married to her, then forget everything I have just told you. Leave, and do her the service, for she deserves a man who would be proud to be her husband.”

“I would not be ashamed,” he said quietly.

“Then why do you hinge your happiness on the opinions of others? I am tired of wrapping myself in knots to protect your sensibilities, Darcy. I will ask Miss Bennet for her hand, for I am sure I will go mad if I do not. Do you truly believe she does not care for me?”

He thought of Miss Bennet and her pretty smiles, her soft voice.

“I…I do not know.”

“Then I will find out for myself.”

∞∞∞

And so, Darcy and Bingley returned to Longbourn the next morning.

It was not to ask Mr Bennet for his permission to wed either of his eldest daughters, but simply to ask permission to accompany them on a walk.

Darcy had at least convinced Bingley to go about this in the proper fashion, but he was still not entirely convinced that Bingley would not blurt out his desires to the bewildered Miss Bennet.

The door was answered as expected on that day, by a servant. He found himself disappointed not to see Miss Elizabeth, but pushed that feeling away as quickly as it had come to him.

“May we speak to Mr Bennet?”

“’Course, sir. He’s in his library; follow me.”

They were led through the house. Darcy had yet to see so much of Longbourn, and though he was sure it had seen better days, he could not deny that there was a gentle sort of charm about the place.

“This is Mr Bennet’s study. Hold on a moment, and I’ll make sure he is happy to see visitors. He doesn’t much like being disturbed.”

What business could this man have that kept him so occupied?

The estate was not particularly large, the household small – for he saw smears of flour about the woman who had brought them here that suggested she was also a kitchen maid, if not a cook – and his daughters impossibly independent and without control.

He certainly was not occupied with their education.

The woman returned, brushing down her hands on her apron.

“Mr Bennet shall see you both. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to him.”

“Thank you very much,” Bingley said effusively.

Darcy lingered – if he were to enter with Bingley, then surely the implication would be that he, too, wished to walk with a Bennet girl.

In this world, there was no such thinga man walking alongside a woman without intent.

He would then be considered to hold an interest in Miss Elizabeth – for she would be the only sister he held any interest at all – and as such a proposal would be expected and…

“Stop thinking,” Bingley muttered under his breath. “Come in and go for a damned walk.”

He followed Bingley into the room, finding Mr Bennet sitting in his chair.

“Well, what an unexpected delight. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“I wondered, sir, if I might be able to invite Miss Bennet for a walk this afternoon?”

“Oh? And you, Mr Darcy, what is your business?”

“I am simply accompanying Mr Bingley.”

“A pity,” he muttered. “But yes, I suppose I should give my consent. Jane mustn’t go far in this cold air, or her mother will have my head. Would the gardens at Longbourn be sufficient?”

The gardens, as far as Darcy could tell, would take no longer than two minutes to walk around.

“Very sufficient, Mr Bennet. Thank you.”

“Elizabeth will chaperone.”

“I hardly think…” Darcy began to protest.

An unmarried sister was not an appropriate chaperone, and a true gentleman would know this.

Mr Bennet himself would be far more suitable (Mrs Bennet would not suit at all, Darcy thought, for he could not bear the prospect of having to walk by her side), but it seemed the man had no desire to prise himself from his chair.

“Our garden is rather compact, Mr Darcy. I assure you my wife will be watching from the windows, and will quickly intervene if she believes it to be necessary. I am sure Mr Bingley will contain himself.”

There was a creak from the hallway.

“Lizzy?” Mr Bennet called out suddenly. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Papa. I was just going out for a walk,” Miss Elizabeth replied from behind the door.

“Let her in, will you Mr Darcy?”

Darcy turned, opening the door. Miss Elizabeth stood on the other side, clutching a book in her grasp. He glanced down, curious to see her taste in literature now that she was returned to her own home.

This was no penny novel; in her hands, her knuckles white as she gripped fiercely, was his diary.